Concrete Angel
by ladybugbear2
Summary: She walks to school with the lunch she packed, nobody knows what she's holding back, wearing the same dress she wore yesterday, she hides the bruises with the linen and lace...


A/N So this is depressing. But I'm happy with it. Um, yeah.

I don't own Once Upon A Time or the song Concrete Angel.

The bruises were something Belle French was used to hiding. She had a lace jacket that she could wear over her linen dress. And it seemed to work. Mrs. Lucas certainly never mentioned it. Something she was grateful for. Papa didn't need that kind of distraction. He was so sad now that mama was gone. And if he hit her sometimes it was nothing less than she deserved. Or at least, that's what he told her. So she hid them. It wasn't a big deal. No one really payed attention to her anyway. She wished sometimes that her mommy had taken her with her when she'd died. Maybe then she wouldn't be such a burden on her papa. Or that her mama hadn't had her. Then she wouldn't have ever been a burden.

At least she had Rum. He was her only friend and they liked it that way. He was the only one who understood her. Cause his papa hit him too. And he hid his bruises with a leather jacket the way she hid hers with lace. Sometimes she dreamed that they both could run away and live by themselves where no grownups could find them. He usually told her that was silly cause they couldn't take care of themselves. They were just kids. But she still dreamed. It helped sometimes.

That night was worse than normal. Papa hadn't had a good day at work and he'd found a picture she'd drawn of her and Rum that said Best Friends. He said that little girls like her didn't deserve friends. Bad girls deserved to be punished. And then he hit her. More than usual. With his fists instead of just his open hand like he usually did. At one point as she was trying not to cry and trying to get away she hit her head and things went a little sideways. She figured he'd stop then. Cause he usually didn't like her to get bruises on her face. But he didn't. He hit her harder. It was getting hard to see. And she felt dizzy and kind of warm. But also kind of cold at the same time. Then he hit her again and she fell back and hit her head again and that's when everything went dark.

The word of sweet little Belle French's death came as a shock to most people. Most people weren't Mrs. Lucas, though. She'd known something was wrong at the little girl's house. But other than a few inquiries about her home life, her mom had passed the year before, she didn't ask. Stuff like that wasn't her business.

The principal, Ms. Mills, had wondered too. But the child had had at least one or two friends. And generally the abused ones stayed away from others. Ah well, not like she could do anything about it now. One less child to worry about, at least.

Emma Swan had been the first responder on the scene. A child, a 7-year-old boy who said his name was Rum Gold, had called it in. The dispatcher told her he'd said there were scary noises coming from the last house on Story lane. Scary noises that sounded like shouting and crying. She'd come to the house and discovered a run down house but it was quiet. Deciding to check out the boy's claim anyway she'd rang the doorbell and been greeted by a man in his mid 30s who had bloody knuckles and a snarl on his face. All he'd said was that the brat had had it coming before stomping off to the living room and slumping in the chair. Following him she saw a child crumpled on the floor. She couldn't have been more than seven but she was covered in blood and bruises. She'd called for back up and an ambulance before arresting the guy. Checking on the little girl, her worst fears were confirmed. No breath, no pulse, no nothing.

Rum went to the funeral. He'd brought the picture she drew of them. It said Best Friends. And he liked to think he'd brought at least a flicker of light into the ocean of darkness that had been the last year of her life. Their teacher, their principal, and the cop who'd gotten to the house first were the only other people there. Shaking his head he put the picture on the grave before walking away. Sometimes he wished he could do more than just be their friend in the months before they died.

A/N So, what'd ya think? Please let me know, constructive criticism is welcomed.


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